


the 5 times you distracted sherlock and the 1 time he actually did something about it

by sailor_bean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Female Reader, Journalist Reader, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock in Love, first non-headcanon fic wish me luck, i apologize in advance for that, like very very mild, low key kinda pretentious, reader - Freeform, reader with actual character, this took 3 months for absolutely no reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailor_bean/pseuds/sailor_bean
Summary: "You asked him if he and the guest wanted some tea. Clearly more for your benefit than anything else, since you had been yawning all morning—but that was to be expected of you, he had stayed up all night pouring over an experiment and (Y/N), the fool you could be sometimes, refused to go to bed until he did. Like that would make him go to bed sooner.Which, of course, it did. But you didn’t know that. And you would never know that sort of thing, he had promised that to himself a few days ago when he first saw the glitter in your eyes."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Reader, Sherlock Holmes & Reader, Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Kudos: 78
Collections: JJBA





	1. one.

You could be incredibly distracting.

The first time Sherlock noticed this, (stupid, it was clear as day once he looked) there was some meaningless investigation going on, obvious from the second Sherlock had even heard the idea of the “killer”. It was suicide, naturally. He was going to give them the answer right then and there, but…

But you had gotten so excited. Over nothing, but there was something in the way your eyes glittered when Lastrade gave the three of them the information on the case while they looked around the apartment. Lord, there was no other word for it but incredibly, unbelievably distracting. The more he observed you—not a particularly odd thing for him to do in the grand scheme of things, he observed everyone from time to time—the more he noticed about you that fogged up his brain. He wasn’t even trying to listen to Lastrade anymore. He was too busy. Busy noticing the very particular way your brow dug into her face, the way it shot up when Lastrade apparently said something of interest to you. Your lips, god, how had he never noticed your lips before? They bounced up right as John muttered something pointless yet amusing, and your teeth sunk into them ever so slightly when something seemed wrong about the case.

“The entry could have been from the victim. I mean, there’s a fair bit of alcohol in the cabinets and according to the roommate he often went out. He could have easily forgotten his keys that night, or fairly recently.” You leaned closer to the windowsill with scratch marks from the entry in question, with that same sparkle in your eyes. Your hand suddenly stuck out, reaching for something invisible. You paused for a second before glancing back, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with a certain determination. “Sherlock. Your magnifying glass.” You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sherlock scrambled, making up for his failure to pay attention to the _proper_ things, and practically shoved the small glass into your hand. The contact shot through his hand all the way to his brain, but that didn’t affect him as much as the raised eyebrow from his reaction and the brief second of eye contact you made with him. Your (beautiful, stunning, absolutely gorgeous) eyes met his, shining with amusement, and that shot something through his heart. His heart? No, that would be ridiculous. In fact, the whole thing was ridiculous. He quickly banished his foreign thoughts about (Y/N), or about anyone, and began to speak, only stumbling over his words a bit at first.

“You’re—You’re absolutely right, (Y/N). It was a—”

“Hey! Don’t spoil it, I’m in the middle of figuring it out.” You interrupted him with a sudden quality to your voice he’d only heard once or twice before. He didn’t even bother pushing back on that (but if he stopped to think about it, your voice like that was one of the most distracting things he’d ever heard before). He just stood there, noticing and cataloguing more and more things he’d never seen, or just never bothered to notice about you, before.


	2. two.

After the first time he saw those little things about you, he just couldn’t help noticing more. 

Like now, in the middle of an interview with a potential client who was actually interesting him for once, you asked him if he and the guest wanted some tea. Clearly more for your benefit than anything else, since you had been yawning all morning—but that was to be expected of you, he had stayed up all night pouring over an experiment and (Y/N), the fool you could be sometimes, refused to go to bed until he did. Like that would make him go to bed sooner.

Which, of course, it did. But you didn’t know that. And you would never know that sort of thing, he had promised that to himself a few days ago when he first saw the glitter in your eyes.

Like how you always can barely reach the sugar and honey up on the shelf, but you refuse to put it anywhere else, even though John had offered about a thousand times.

John had taken over the conversation now, seeing as Sherlock had gone dead quiet for absolutely no reason. That is, until John kicked him in the leg and acted like it was an accident. Sherlock whipped around from looking at the kitchen and met John’s eyes for a second, accusatory, then all at once an almost begging look to the other man. A sort of ‘please don’t tell her she can never know’ once he saw John’s expression that was knowing in a way that made his blasted heart beat faster than it should be, for just sitting in his chair. 

The client looked uncomfortable some odd reason, so Sherlock asked a simple question to lighten the tension in the room. 

“You’re cheating on your wife, aren’t you?” he desperately clawed at his mind, trying to drag something out that resembled what he used to be able to do, but you started humming, ever so softly, and, god, that was his undoing. Before the man could even stutter out a reply, he would deny it, of course, then Sherlock would lay out all the evidence to prove it, but since he already knew how that would play out, he asked the man to leave and to phone them later if he felt like giving them the whole story. Perfectly reasonable.

“Now what exactly was that for?” John’s eyebrows were taut and wrinkled his forehead a little. “I thought you would like that case. It seemed interesting!” 

“Ah, sometimes it’s necessary to throw them out at least once. Sets the sort of precedent I want out of a working relationship.” Sherlock quipped, not even meeting John’s eye’s but grabbing a book instead, hoping to be able to finally focus on something if it was a little more straightforward.

“Oh, so when am I going to get thrown out of here at a moment’s notice?” (Y/N)’s voice lilted from the kitchen along with a clattering of utensils (you were putting honey in your tea and mixing it in now, he knew for certain). You and John chuckled a little at this quip, but this startled Sherlock more than anything had today. Did you really think this was just a working relationship? Of course not, you had to know he cared about you. He thought he was being ridiculously obvious… Yet clearly, you didn’t realize. This idea of you and him just being work partners destroyed something in Sherlock. He couldn’t tell what. But he also knew it would be dangerous to let you know that your statement had done anything at all to him.

“Oh, you’ll see. Just lulling you into a false sense of security so it’ll really make its impact.” Sherlock said as monotone as he could get. He could hear your small snorts coming from the kitchen still, though he tried to block them out. And every noise you made kept crushing whatever was getting crushed inside Sherlock. But he couldn’t deal with that today, he had far more important things to do. So, he opted to ignore everyone and everything for the entire rest of the day, hoping that would make his damned feelings go away. 


	3. three.

How _did_ type O- blood react to extreme heat? Probably the same as other blood types. There wasn’t much of a difference between them. But Sherlock ran out of experiments and he was incredibly, awfully bored, so obviously so that John had taken the gun and hidden in in his left desk drawer. Of course, Sherlock knew where it was, but he didn’t care enough to go get it just to shoot at the wall or something equally pointless. 

Because he wasn’t just bored, he needed something to focus on. And shooting at the wall left one a fair bit of time to think about the way the moonlight bounced off (Y/N)’s hair, making you look so effortlessly beautiful. Not to mention it would give John a fair bit of time to tease him for his… ‘Crush.’ Sherlock didn’t like that word. But he supposed it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he actually had one. Love was a weakness, a terrible one, and just because the idea of (Y/N) getting hurt made his blood boil just like when he threw various samples of blood in the oven, that didn’t mean he loved you. That just meant he had grown to value you. As a partner. 

But Sherlock was trying to avoid thinking today. Desperately trying to avoid it as the clock ticked and time stretched further and further into the next day, and he eagerly awaited midnight like somehow the next day would solve all his problems. 

In fact, midnight actually made the problems worse, because John said he’d better be heading off to bed, he had work in the morning, and instead of (Y/N) excusing yourself like Sherlock wished you would, you merely looked up from your book and grinned at John (it almost made Sherlock’s blood boil again, seeing as he could never remember you smiling so wonderfully at him before. But perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it, and anyone could see you were closer to John anyway). 

After a couple last words between your and John’s conversation, your eyes settled on him. They flicked around his face for a couple of seconds, you clearly trying to figure something out, and then finally they glanced back at your book. Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief before turning back to his efforts to find some O- blood in his collection. But he stopped at the sight of your grey sweater (Well, it was technically John’s, but it never quite fit him right and he eventually gave it to you one night when you complained about how cold it was in the apartment) standing next to the kitchen counter, leaning over his blood samples quietly. 

“Can I ask what you’re doing?” Your gentle voice, half a whisper, sent a jolt through his brain (Why were you so close to him why were you so close to him why why why) but he quickly tried to recover. 

“I need… O- blood. For a simple test of how it’ll react under different temperatures.” Sherlock didn’t meet your eyes, as much as he would love to get lost in them and stare into their depths all night long, he assumed that would be a tad strange for you. 

“Oh.” You paused for a second, he could see your hand fidgeting with the sleeve of your sweater out of the corner of his eye. “Um, I have O- blood. But you’d probably need to… get it out with a needle, right?” Sherlock’s mind couldn’t handle looking away for one moment longer, especially not with the fear that tinged your voice, setting off something in him, something he didn’t really recognize before. (Protectiveness? No. He rarely felt protective of anyone, and he certainly couldn’t feel protective over you. That would be a terrible sign.) 

“It’s not urgent.” He said simply, not being able to think of anything else besides the fact that he wanted to wrap you up in his arms and tell you you didn’t have to do that for him, it wasn’t that important. “It’s not that important.” He could filter his thoughts, though. As long as he stayed wary enough to not let anything slip through. 

“I’ve been distracting you lately, haven’t I?” You muttered, seeming almost worried to admit it. Sherlock’s immediate shock must have come through on his face, and your brows knit together in a way Sherlock wished to never, ever see again. Before he could say anything, though, your mouth seemed to explode with a cacophony of words that he almost wouldn’t have been able to understand if he wasn’t paying such close attention to everything about you. “God, I knew it, John said something was weird with you and I’m really sorry, I am, I try to help but I don’t think I actually do that much that anyone else can’t and—” 

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself anymore. His arms moved outside of his free will, like something was willing them forward (his own subconscious, probably, damn his stupid, human brain). He wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you close to his chest as your mouth snapped closed in surprise. He stood there for a second berating himself for being such a blasted _idiot_ —but right when he was going to start apologizing himself; you buried yourself into him, your arms circling around his waist and pulling him even closer to you than he would dare. Your breath was shaking as it went in and out of your lungs, but it seemed to finally slow and even out the longer they stood there. Sherlock didn’t dare say anything until you finally felt calm, and then he only muttered almost into your hair:

“You’re a… big help, (Y/N). Never doubt that.” He could feel you smile against his crisp white button up (hugging someone was odd, very odd, but he couldn’t help but enjoy this strange situation anyway). You squeezed him a little tighter, if that was even possible, but then pulled away from his chest a bit. Your arms were still around each him, and his around yours, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think this would be a lovely way to kiss you. But he dashed away those thoughts as soon as he realized them. Sherlock wanted to save this moment of rare connection between the two of you without getting distracted, again.

“Something has been distracting you, though, Sherlock. If it’s not me being unhelpful, then I don’t really know what it is…” Your concern was clear and radiating off you in waves. But Sherlock couldn’t exactly tell you the truth in this moment—What was he supposed to say, ‘I’ve been getting distracted by how amazingly perfect you are in every way?’ Don’t be ridiculous. 

“It’s a family issue.” Was the first thing that came to mind. Not a worthless excuse, John and (Y/N) didn’t exactly know Sherlock’s family that well. This only got you seemingly more concerned, however. 

“Do you want me to march down to Buckingham Palace and tell Mycroft to fuck off?” Your offer seemed genuine besides the tiny smile that played at the corner of your lips. 

“I can handle it perfectly fine.” Reflex response, naturally. But he felt the need to amend it for some odd reason, to make it kinder, make you feel his gratitude. “But thank you. I… appreciate the offer.” 

This made (Y/N) absolutely burst out laughing, so much that he could hear John wake up in the bedroom upstairs and shift around a bit, and (unfortunately) you took your arms out from around him. A quizzical look on his face earned him the response of: 

“I’m sorry, you’re trying so hard to be nice it’s just—” more laughter bubbled up from your and it nearly made him smile as well. “This just didn’t really go at all like what I was expecting it to.” You kept laughing, and somehow Sherlock wanted to keep you laughing. Although he never was particularly stellar at that. But this time, extremely willingly, he let himself become distracted by you. And your angelic laugh.

Honestly. What was the world coming to?


	4. four.

Things had been different ever since that night. Sherlock and (Y/N). (Y/N) and Sherlock. The two just seemed to go together now. Of course, John fit into that pair very naturally. It wasn’t as if you forgot him. But the strange dynamic between you three that used to be there, a bridge that just hadn’t finished construction between you and Sherlock, finally got finished. And once Sherlock crossed that bridge for the first time, there was no going back.

John knew right away, of course, since he couldn’t get more than half an hour of sleep that first night you talked. You riled each other up more than either of them did with John, and the night ended with John coming downstairs at 4 in the morning to tell them to _please_ shut up, he was trying to have a normal life and (Y/N) trying to learn how to play Sherlock’s violin _did not help_ with that. (You made fun of him incessantly for that line, however.) 

And John wasn’t exactly surprised when (Y/N) started tagging along to more mysteries, taking your phone and notebook with you so you could jot down notes for your articles about the inside of the London crime scenes, with a few fluff pieces about Sherlock and John that were more of a joke to the three of them than anything else.

Everyone else in your life seemed to be a little more shocked, however. 

Lastrade was the first to notice, and the first to react so strangely, in a museum with a dead body posed as a statue, Sherlock had said some fact about the body that no one had noticed that made (Y/N) slap your hand over your mouth and start shaking in… Laughter? 

“Are you alright, (Y/N)?” Lastrade stepped closer to you, his face painted with concern. 

(Y/N) didn’t answer for a second, stopping your shaking and putting on a collected face before meeting Lastrade’s eyes and immediately laughing again. The (gorgeous) sound of your hysterics floated through the abandoned museum, but your face shifted into a reddish hue as soon as you saw everyone’s eyes on you.

“Sorry, sorry, I know it’s not funny.” You waved your hand at Sherlock, meeting his eyes before he sent you a faux-confused look that made you giggle for a moment longer before you finally calmed yourself down.

“So, what is so funny between the two of you?” Lastrade seemed genuinely curious, but John just shook his head with a look that said, ‘don’t even bother’. Sherlock smiled—That seemed to have caught Lastrade off guard. He sent Sherlock a raised eyebrow.

“Private joke.” Sherlock stated monotone as ever. That made (Y/N) grin again, although Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure why. 

“A private joke? _You?_ ” Lastrade’s eyes were as wide as if Sherlock had just said something terribly ridiculous. Which he supposed he did. After all, John and Sherlock had no running jokes before that Lastrade had known about… But it was different with (Y/N). Somehow. 

“You know he’s actually a proper guy once you break past that brooding exterior. You know, like when he flips his coat collar up?” (Y/N) said more to Sherlock than to Lastrade. Everyone chuckled a little at that, particularly John, but Sherlock didn’t get to say something cheeky back, as Lastrade suddenly pulled Sherlock away from the ‘statue’ with a sharp tug on his arm. 

“Listen, Sherlock, I know you’re a, uh, ‘proper guy.’ But I know you’re not a normal one.” Lastrade said in a bit of a whisper, ignoring the strange looks (Y/N) and John were giving them. “So, you may not understand what normal people think—”

“Where exactly is this going, Lastrade?” Sherlock asked. 

“Just—We all like (Y/N). She’s a wonderful person—” 

“Yes, I am aware.”

“So, don’t be an idiot and scare her off!” Lastrade finally finished, glancing back at (Y/N) and John to make sure they had heard nothing. Sherlock straightened while his face probably showed some sort of surprise. He opened his mouth to say something angry, but… Could he really blame Lastrade for thinking that he might? Sherlock supposed it was a natural conclusion for his mind to come to. And he really was trying to be less of a prick. 

“I’m trying not to.” Sherlock stated. Lestrade didn’t exactly seem happy, though, so he glanced over at (Y/N) to be sure. You were on your tiptoes, trying to look at the base of the statue to see how it attached. He couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his heart when he looked at you. God, you were—perfect. You were probably one of the best things to ever happen to him. So what if when you went on a date with some random guy, he couldn’t focus on anything until you got back, proclaiming it was a waste of time? So what if his mind was always a little foggier than usual with you around? You were, quite honestly, worth any trouble you happened to cause. 

“Trust me.” Sherlock had a certain determination; he was sure it was showing to Lastrade. That was finally what got Lastrade to back off.

But Sherlock had to keep doing this. To everyone. Even John said something along those lines, although it was more of a “If you hurt (Y/N) because you’re that much of an idiot, I will personally kill you” sort of conversation, which he decided suited John very well. But the entire thing was honestly more distracting than you just being there, which he used to think was the most distracting thing in the world. 

Finally, Sherlock had enough of these sneaky conversations when even Molly, _dear god, Molly!_ had pulled him aside at a Christmas party John and (Y/N) threw without bothering to mention it to Sherlock. She started on her ‘listen I know you’re a really great guy but we just don’t want to see her get hurt’ when Sherlock took in a deep breath. He just couldn’t do it anymore. He was going to shout something at Molly, he was going to say ‘of course I won’t hurt her! I’m practically in love with her why would I ever hurt her’—but Molly certainly didn’t deserve that. He decided to take a calmer approach, and he motioned to Molly to wait just a second while he banished the idea that (Y/N) would be proud of him for trying to control his anger around people a little more. 

Everyone seemed a little shocked when Sherlock marched out to the living room at the party he didn’t even want to be at and faced everyone with a vaguely annoyed look.

“I will not hurt (Y/N). Okay? So—” Sherlock met (Y/N)’s eyes, who looked a little confused, but amused nonetheless. He heard your voice inside his head (“You really need to say please a little more often, Sherlock. Manners are important in this day and age!”) and decided he could only get people to believe him one way and one way only. “—Please. Stop pulling me aside to ask. Alright?” Everyone nodded, still ever-so-slightly shocked, but Sherlock didn’t really care. Now he had a perfectly reasonable excuse to get angry at them if they asked. He wandered off back to the kitchen, throwing a ‘better?’ look at Molly before pouring himself a random drink someone brought. He needed it.

“So. How many people do you think asked you to be careful around me, huh?” (Y/N)’s voice surprised him (especially being so close to him, you were going to hear how his heart-rate jumped standing that close) but he tried not to let it show. 

“Oh, maybe… Everyone.” Sherlock took a sip of his drink, evidently wine (he hadn’t exactly bothered to read the bottle) all the while making eye contact with you and raising an eyebrow when you started to laugh, just a bit.

“God, I’m so sorry.” You reached for the wine he had just put down and poured yourself a glass too. “Well, I’ll have you know I received a few myself. Although, they were less ‘don’t hurt Sherlock’ and more like…” You tried to finish your sentence, thinking for the right words to say. Normally this would annoy Sherlock, the only reason people did this was to not offend people and offending people was half the fun of talking to them, but for some odd reason he quite liked it when you did it. (Your eyes darted around the room trying to find something that would jog your memory of a right word to use, you took a sip of wine to bide your time and the taste lit up your eyes just a tad more than they had already been.) “More like… Don’t leave him. I guess. Which is really just a way of saying don’t hurt him.” You smiled a bit at this (your smile was so perfect; honestly, how did he never notice before that meaningless suicide) and had another sip of wine. 

“I was honestly offended at first. I mean, when have I ever hurt people?” Sherlock quipped, making your smile grow wider. 

Perhaps this Christmas party would be good, after all. 


	5. five.

Sherlock was always good at keeping distractions he didn’t care about at bay. Case in point, he never let Donovan and Anderson get to him, even on bad days. 

But now that (Y/N) was around, the situation seemed a little different. Any time they said something, even just a simple ‘freak’, the sparkle in your eyes would dull a little. Oh, sure, you put on a good show. That was one way you absolutely excelled in helping Sherlock and John with mysteries. You could fool almost anyone into believing almost anything (arguably better than Sherlock could, since you actually experienced emotions like a regular person). But Sherlock payed attention to everything you did too much to not notice the way their petty feud would make your shoulders sag for just a second before it would perk back up so no one could tell. Once, he’d even asked you if you were okay, and that just made things worse—you reacted with an “of course I’m fine!” and being overly chipper the entire rest of the day. He knew it upset you. He just had no idea why.

Hell, even John agreed with them and their stupid insults a fair amount of the time. Sherlock just couldn’t understand why you _cared_. They were attacking him. (He’d even asked John about why you did care, but John just sighed and said that if Sherlock was ever going to take things farther with (Y/N), he needed to learn how to figure out your emotions himself. John seemed to be a little too good at figuring out people, sometimes. Sherlock just stuttered out something about how he wasn’t interested in you like that, he was just caring about a friend and excuse him for trying to be a good person like everyone was always asking him to. John had just raised an eyebrow and kept typing away at his stupid blog.) Sherlock now had two options. Never figure it out, or ask you why you were doing this. 

And naturally, Sherlock chose the second option. It was obvious it was what normal people did. But he could never quite bring himself to follow through with the decision he made. He always just stood there considering if now, this very moment, was a good time to bring it up, and by the time he had decided, the moment had just passed. Sherlock had never had a problem like this before, and he absolutely hated it. 

But apparently he didn’t need to talk to you about it. About a week after he had first decided to bring it up (yes, he knew he was a coward but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want you masking whatever you were feeling just to calm him down. It did anything but.) something… Happened.

It started like any other day. The three of them had marched into the Scotland Yard after (Y/N) received a call from Lastrade (you were a little more reliable to pick up the phone than any of them, Sherlock often wouldn’t notice it had gone off and John often wouldn’t answer if he was busy with something unimportant) and were met in the station with a case file held by a typically angry Donovan. She muttered something unintelligible to (Y/N), but the latter woman simply ignored her and snatched the case file away from her. Donovan rolled her eyes and marched off, but Sherlock noticed your eyes lost a bit of that sparkle again. He wanted to shout at Donovan; he wanted to scream at her to please stop, he was so terribly worried about (Y/N) and if Donovan kept taking all the happiness in your eyes, there won’t be any left. But he figured that would make him sound like even more of a madman than everyone already thought he was. So he simply forced himself to move on and started reading the case with you and John peering over his shoulders. 

It was some case Sherlock knew Lastrade wouldn’t need help with if he could actually think, but he mentioned nothing about it. (This was the fourth time he’d done this. They were spending ages on cases now because Sherlock mostly refused to help if (Y/N) was making an effort, too. It was simply fascinating to watch you try to solve the case—you would always have your hands doing something, jotting notes down, tapping your pencil eraser on your notebook, pointless things that you claimed helped you think. And you would always end up biting your lip ever so slightly, and after Sherlock saw it that first time, he just couldn’t help but try to see it more.) (Y/N)’s eyes lit up again, your fingers tugging at the end of your coat as your eyes darted across the page. Sherlock smiled a bit to himself and grabbed the case file, turning and rushing out the door with John and (Y/N) right on his tail.

But oh, Lord. Today was not the day he had hoped it would be, not a day full of running around solving mysteries, doing the thing he loved best, with the people he found he loved the most. 

“Oh, freak, it’s you. I have something I want to say to you.” Donovan leaned on the wall right next to the side door. She glanced behind him, at John and (Y/N), before sticking one of her perfectly manicured fingers into Sherlock’s chest. He made an intense effort not to look surprised, not to look bothered. He needed to show (Y/N) that it was alright, that he could handle this. After all, he’d handled worse, and now he was older and now he had people he could rely on. 

“Listen, Donavan.” (Y/N)’s voice seemed different. It was dripping with _something_ , some strange emotion he couldn’t quite place. Your comically deep breaths were shaky, and Sherlock noticed you were gripping your fists together in anger. He’d never seen you this angry, ever, and it mesmerized him. “Why don’t you just—Leave us alone.” You were clearly going to say something much, much different, but after taking in another jittery breath, you opted for calmer words. Sherlock didn’t know why, but he almost wanted you to explode with whatever emotion you were so desperately trying to twist the jar shut on, he wanted to understand what exactly was happening to you so maybe, just maybe, he could help. But he still had no idea how. 

You fascinated him, yes. But that was because you utterly and completely confused him. 

There was a pause as Donavan met your eyes, looked you up and down to try and read you like Sherlock had failed to do. After a moment, a yelp escaped her mouth, and she almost doubled over with… intense laughter. Sherlock had never heard Donavan laugh before, and it was almost out of place for the woman so typically filled with rage. 

“Oh—Oh god. Don’t tell me. You’ve—you actually caught feelings?” She howled for another minute, not being able to say much of anything. (Y/N) was stock-still, your face dusted in a pink blush. Sherlock guessed it was from the cold that swept along the street, judging by how much you were shaking, as well. Your gaze darted over to him for a moment, expression softening for a millisecond like it always did, out of instinct, your brain not realizing that millisecond was enough to leave his head spinning and himself grasping for something to hold on to that was factual, something that he was used to. But that was before Donovan met her eyes again. 

“Don’t tell you what?” Something broke in (Y/N). He could see it snap in your eyes as they narrowed, he could see the way your gaze darkened as your eyes darted across Donovan, searching for a weak spot. It was incredibly interesting. And attractive. “Don’t tell you that you should back the fuck away from me and my friends? Or should I not tell you that you’re a narcissistic asshole who won’t take one step away from that dickwad Anderson to realize that, oh, maybe the man who saves this entire department from getting shut down practically every week isn’t actually as bad as you thought!” You were face to face with Donovan now, passing Sherlock and putting yourself in between the antagonizing woman and himself. 

“(Y/N)—” John placed his hand on your shoulder, something that normally stopped your panicking from being so heartbreakingly terrible, but this anger mixed with something else didn’t appreciate the gesture, far from it. You didn’t even glance back at John, simply tugging your shoulder away from his touch and growling:

“Let me have this, John.” Your voice softened just a little when referring to the man now standing beside Sherlock. Both he and John had just opted to let the scene play out, John out of wisdom and Sherlock out of pure shock. “Listen. I won’t repeat myself. If you tell me to stop hanging out with Sherlock one more time, I’m going to have some issues. If you say one more thing about how Sherlock’s a ‘freak’, I’m going to have some issues. And if you’re a dick to Sherlock, or to John in any way? Can you guess what’s going to happen?”

“Alright, she gets it, (Y/N).” John pulled on her shoulder, making you glance back at John, then at Sherlock. When you met Sherlock’s eyes, there was a twinge of guilt within the depths of your eyes. Like that time you had accidentally ruined his experiment by leaving the fridge open, or when you were reading some book you found terribly entertaining and laughed so loud even Mrs. Hudson could hear you when he was trying to think. He never could find it within himself to blame you. And he certainly didn’t blame you now. He wasn’t even sure what he should blame you about.

Donovan had slunk away, dashed for the door as soon as (Y/N)’s attention was anywhere else. The three just sat there for a moment, John with his hand on your shoulder and you and Sherlock captured in some gaze that Sherlock didn’t know what to think about. Your eyes were completely blank. Not even a flicker or a dim sparkle. They looked… Empty. 

Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure how they got out of there, and how they had ended up drinking tea in the living room. He texted Lastrade the answer to the case and merely sat in a daze, ignoring the endless stream of texts, praise from Lastrade, he was sure, and eventually ended up in his chair back at home. He wasn’t even really aware of anything until you finally broke the silence of the apartment by setting his favorite cup and saucer down on the side table (you normally handed it to him with a smile and some comment about whatever was happening at the moment. At the very least you would meet his eyes for a second before going back to calm, comforting silence. But now you just scampered by, not even meeting his eyes for a moment so he could bathe in that strange feeling of warmth and jitters he felt whenever he looked at you and craved so strangely, but just sifting a cold fear over him he could only attribute to some sort of dread of what was to come. 

John took his cup from (Y/N) and muttered something Sherlock didn’t care to catch to her before staring at Sherlock with a certain intensity he rarely saw from the man.

“I’m going to write up something for the blog. You two should talk.” John stated with some undercurrent of hidden meaning. Sherlock knew exactly what it was, but he didn’t really feel like analyzing it in his current mood, so Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and watched John walk up the stairs to his room until the door clicked shut. 

As if on cue, you and Sherlock made eye contact for the first time since Donovan had run off. Sherlock was sure his expression was mostly unreadable, perhaps a whiff of confusion in his eyes. But you… You were positively a mystery to Sherlock. He, for the first time in his life, had absolutely no idea what you were thinking at this moment. All he knew was what you told him when you finally opened your mouth, speaking to him in a tone he’d never heard from you before.

“Listen, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” You muttered, glancing down at your tea for what felt like hours longer than necessary.

“Why exactly are you apologizing?” Sherlock’s expression remained the same, but he could tell his tone was giving away a little of the desperation he felt deep down, hidden somewhere in-between his guts, the desperation he had to get you back, to have you lay down on the couch and talk to him for hours on end about some article you were trying to write, to have you curl up in his chair and type away the entire night while Sherlock busied himself with an experiment or a case, never speaking until absolutely necessary, often not at all. But he felt like that time was long gone, now. Even though today had been so simple, he just couldn’t bring himself to feel the same comfort you once did. And he knew for an absolute fact that you felt the same way. 

“Because I really should be apologizing. I keep antagonizing your co-workers and I—”

“It’s not really antagonizing if they’re the ones who keep calling me a murderer.”

“I took it too far. I just felt protective, because, you know, I really care about you.”

“Of course. I feel the same way.” If only you knew how much he actually cared about you, if only you knew that he would risk anything to keep you safe. He would risk anything to get you back. 

“And there’s another thing. Another reason, I mean.” You struggled to find the words, your eyes flitting around the apartment to anywhere but Sherlock until you finally tightened your shoulders just a little and met his eyes with a determined gaze. But your eyes were still empty.

“See, uh, you know I connect with people really easily. But I never really clicked with someone as well as I do with you, Sherlock. So, another reason I did… What I did with Donovan is because—"

“Because you’re such a good person.”

“Well, no. It’s, um. Because. Because, and I hate to say this, Sherlock, but—”

“Because we’re such close friends?” 

(Y/N)’s shoulder’s sagged. Your eyes somehow got duller, they lost their resolve and just sat there staring at him instead. Sherlock was so terribly confused. His guesses were clearly wrong based on your reaction, so then why didn’t you refute them with your typical passion? 

“Right. I would never want one of my… friends getting hurt. So, I figured I should stand up for you.” Your words were much slower than your usual pace, something that threw Sherlock off. You were almost hesitating to say that simple statement. You looked up at him again for a few moments, almost expectantly, before getting up from the chair, patting his shoulder lightly, almost light enough that he couldn’t even feel it, and shuffling over to the door. “I have to get a few things from the shop. I’ll, uh, see you and John tomorrow, okay?” Not even waiting for a reply, you threw on your scarf (Sherlock’s scarf, technically, but you didn’t have one and he kept ‘accidentally’ leaving it at your apartment so often that it became yours.) And, as you swung the door behind you, he just sat there. Sherlock couldn’t do anything until a full minute after you had walked down the stairs, said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and gently pulled the door behind you. 

And all Sherlock did afterwards was stand up, too late to catch you or to do anything to get you back. His mind was screaming at him to chase after you, but he just stared at the door for what felt like hours until he finally broke from his idiotic stupor and, hopelessly confused and strangely resigned to a fate of living a life without you (the most boring life he could ever imagine), sat back down in his chair and drank his tea, trying not to think about how you made him that cup just the way he liked it.

Simply put, this entire encounter, both with Donovan and you, had distracted him from what he wanted to be doing beyond belief. 


	6. finale.

Sherlock had gotten used to you, so it seemed. The apartment seemed simply empty, even though nothing had changed but your presence. It had been eight days since he last saw you, eight days that he felt totally helpless about his life. After he had thought about the entire day backwards and forwards thousands of times, Sherlock knew he could absolutely never figure it out. He was too damn close to the situation. It was impossible to look at things logically with emotions in the way, that he knew. 

He always said emotions were a weakness. And they truly were. But sometimes you don’t see how you fell into a trap you swore you would never fall into until you try to crawl out and find that you simply can’t.

So Sherlock gave up. He continued working on his experiments, ignoring the fact that he would sometimes stare for ages at all the spots you used to sit while he worked. He ignored completely that John would call you up sometimes, would plan to see you right where Sherlock could hear him (he wasn’t subtle and he knew it, but then again John knew him best now and he knew that subtly was never Sherlock’s favorite.) He ignored his cravings for tea the way you made it, because apparently, he didn’t know the ratio you used, and it was driving him simply insane. 

Sherlock ignored everything. Until John walked into the apartment, having just been out to see you, and asked him—No, John _told_ him to sit down on the couch.

“What is this about, John?” Sherlock asking, feigning innocence. Of course Sherlock knew. But he was doing everything in his power to avoid you, to avoid thinking about you. 

“You know what it’s about, Sherlock.” After seeing Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, John sighed and continued. “It’s about (Y/N). You need to talk to her.”

“What’s the point, really, John? I’ve thought about it, and simply I don’t understand what happened that day.”

“What don’t you understand about it?”

“Well, for starters, why did she get angry at Donovan? And why did she storm out like that? Clearly I did something wrong, but I have absolutely no idea of what it might be—”

“It’s because she has feelings for you, Sherlock.” John sounded absolutely exasperated at this point, but then again, John often did while talking to Sherlock.

“Yes, I have feelings for her too. Of course I do, we’re very close friends—”

“Christ, you absolute twat.” John’s face pulled itself into one of annoyance that Sherlock was used to at this point and met his eyes with a tired sort of determination. “She feels the same way about you you do about her. The… love feelings, I mean.” 

Sherlock stared at John with a blank expression, the man not willing to believe one of his best friends. John dragged a hand across his face and started speaking in what was trying to be a tone of disgust, but had a certain hint of admiration for the two idiots he was speaking of. Namely, (Y/N) and Sherlock.

“Listen, Sherlock, do you know how many times I’ve had to sit there listening to her talk about how much of a genius you are? Or how much of an amazing person you are? And that was before she realized her feelings for you.” John’s mouth tugged itself into a smile in remembrance of you (you sat over a cup of tea, staring into its milky depths, before finally meeting his eyes for the first time that day. John had asked you what was wrong, but it was clearly no use. After glancing around the apartment a few times, looked at John and muttered, “You were right. I have feelings for him.” The rest of the conversation comprised of John gloating for far too long, happy to finally be right, and you going over every single detail of what you liked about Sherlock. Every. Single. One. It would have been painful for John if you weren’t so clearly happy, and he was glad you trusted him enough to tell him this.)

“…I’m sorry. What?” Sherlock muttered, as if to not wake himself from whatever absolutely fantastic dream he was having.

“Sherlock, she’s practically in love with you. Haven’t you noticed she’s always trying to impress you by solving cases and things like that? And—Well, I suppose I just should just have (Y/N) tell you herself.”

“What do you mean, herself? John, she’s not talking to me anymore.”

“She’s not talking to you because she thinks you’re mad at her. You’re pretty hard to read sometimes, you know.” 

Sherlock blinked. His mind was a powerful motor working at full capacity. Normally his mind only worked this hard on cases, and the difference between the two thought processes sent him spinning even faster than he already was. How was it you were constantly on his mind? Sherlock thought for a moment, expression dark, then thought that he was sick and tired of merely thinking. He had an opportunity to actually do something with his life, damn it, something he’d wanted for who knows how long. As long as you had been in his life, that’s for sure, whether or not he recognized it at the time. And he finally could put it all together, thanks to John and his dependability that the two of you found in him.

Sherlock leapt from his chair without a word, tugging on his coat with a sense of urgency John had only seen a handful of times from the other man. John called after him a word or two of luck, but Sherlock ignored that in favor of practically jumping past all the chairs and hailing a taxi in seconds. 

That taxi ride had been quite possibly the longest of his life, but once he finally stepped out of the black car, he stopped in his tracks. Your apartment building was a large one, but it held such a comforting feeling to Sherlock. He rarely stopped by your place, in fact you practically lived at John and his own little corner of Baker Street, but when you weren’t able to take the time to drive down to see the two men, Sherlock and John would come by, sometimes bringing you food or making some tea if you were busy with an article, or in Sherlock’s case, mostly calming company that you claimed helped your work and yet could also provide a much needed distraction from the constant effort your writing could take. 

He felt a warmth he only felt about you somewhere nestled in his chest lift up its head at the mere sight of your building, and although his hands seemed to shake in a way he’d never felt before, not from cold or from an adrenaline rush, but from something he could only attribute to nerves, he smiled just a bit as he walked into your building, tapped the elevator button, and finally knocked on your door.

“Sherlock?” You asked before you even opened the door fully, making it all the more nerve-wracking for the man now standing before your doorway sheepishly when your eyes widened with a mix of shock and some other feeling he could only guess was either fear or hope. It was hard to tell when his heart was pounding so fast, he could barely hear your muttering of his name.

“Right. Listen, (Y/N)—” 

“I was out of line, okay, and I totally understand if you’re angry—” you spoke to his coat lapels, not even meeting his eyes, and it almost shattered his heart completely.

“(Y/N), just listen to me, okay? I have to… explain myself.” Sherlock’s voice had a twinge of pleading to it, it twisted his face into some sort of apologetic look he didn’t really know how to do, but damn it if he wasn’t going to apologize properly. You nodded, sensing his intensity, opening the door and leaving it open for the detective to follow you inside. 

You placed a mug of tea in front of him on your wooden coffee table (The one you called up Sherlock and John in excitement about because it was the _perfect_ size for your living room and you just needed a _little_ help to get it inside your cozy apartment. You neglected to mention that it needed assembling somehow despite coming partially together, so it was at once bulky and uncomfortable to carry inside and confusing to put together. It had taken the three of you all day, and though Sherlock had acted annoyed, he’d secretly enjoyed spending the entire day by your side trying to puzzle through the poorly translated instructions while the conversation drifted slowly between topics. That day had been one of Sherlock’s favorites so far.) And, sitting beside him on your small couch, you smiled at him quickly, almost as if you were afraid of being too friendly. Sherlock quickly took a sip of the steaming liquid, basking in the taste he hadn’t let himself admit that he missed. 

“It’s a teaspoon and a half of honey, remember?” You shook your head just a little, a soft smile gracing your features. You knew exactly what he was thinking, which shouldn’t surprise him at this point, but was still impressive to him. “Wildflower honey, specifically. It just adds that extra flavor.” You bit your lip, almost like you were trying to solve a case. Sherlock supposed you were—you were trying to solve the case of why in the world Sherlock was here “explaining” himself to you.

“So.” Sherlock moved his lips to continue, but his throat wouldn’t let the dreaded syllables escape from its depths. Your smile turned into a look of pity, of almost fear, but there was something in your eyes that urged him on in a way that almost made it easier to bare his soul to you.

“So.” You said it almost like it was a joke that you knew he wouldn’t understand, but your expression was one full of kindness, one full of everything he grew to love about you.

“(Y/N)… Do you remember that first night when we really got close? You asked if you were distracting me.” Sherlock asked. You nodded, intently listening for any clue he might drop in a tone or a facial expression. “Well, you were right. Probably ever since I knew you. But… It’s a wonderful distraction. I focus too much on my work and I think you—Well, you and John, you help me get out of my head sometimes. And—” Sherlock shut his mouth for a second, needing to gather his thoughts. How come he just couldn’t say how he really felt? How did this come so easily to you, when you hugged him and whispered “I care about you so much, Sherlock” and why was like an endless struggle for him? 

“It’s okay, Sherlock. Take your time.” From your spot next to him, you slowly put a hand on his shoulder. He could feel your nerves rush from your core, through to your fingertips and digging into his skin even with your soft touch on his blazer and coat, but somehow, even though he, deep down, was afraid of what you would think, your smile and your presence and your worry and everything about you in this moment made it so that way Sherlock could continue spilling his heart out.

“(Y/N), I care about you. In a way I’ve never cared about anyone before. John was my first friend, but you’re… something special. I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re away, and I can only stop when you’re around, when you’re working beside me. I started taking longer on cases because you were so interested in them and I liked seeing you so happy. I love seeing the look in your eyes when you’re writing an article or when you solve something or even when you say something funny, it’s like there’s glitter in your eyes and I just want to keep that sparkle, that glitter in your eyes forever because it’s only there when you’re doing something you love. And I… Don’t know if this is too much for you, but honestly, (Y/N), you’re incredibly distracting, but in a good way because I think I’m in love with you. As much as someone like me can be in love with someone as amazing and wonderful and absolutely perfect as you.”

You sat there. Your lips had parted with shock, and your eyes were bursting wide and as he trailed off his confession of emotions he swore to himself he would never tell, Sherlock was sure that he must have looked similar. You stuttered over a couple starts to a sentence before finally asking:

“You’re—You’re sure?” 

“About my feelings towards you? Yes, I’m quite sure.” Sherlock sounded a little more like himself, and he thanked his lucky stars for it. You looked a little more surprised with every passing moment, and you sat there for a second simply scanning his face to make sure he wasn’t lying. 

“I’m not lying, (Y/N). I would never lie to you if I could help it.” Sherlock stated, his mind panicking more and more as you didn’t acknowledge the emotional elephant in the room.

“I know that much. You’re pretty obvious when you lie, you know.” You smiled a bit, and Sherlock smiled at the mere sight of yours. (God, he had missed your smile.) “Um… Sorry, I don’t really know how to do this. I, uh, feel the same. About you. I mean, the specifics are a little different, of course, but—”

“Can I kiss you?” The words surprised both you and Sherlock, even though he had been the one to say them. Yes, he wanted to kiss you, but he hadn’t planned on doing it right at this very moment. He had no idea how to kiss anyone, it was something that simply didn’t appeal to him before. But right now, he didn’t want to do anything else, and Sherlock’s mouth had moved without his meaning to.

You simply bit your lip and nodded slowly, eyes flitting between his eyes and his lips with a sort of caution that was new to him. As you both slowly leaned in, Sherlock’s eyes fluttering shut, you whispered:

“Is this your first kiss?” You looked almost shameful about asking, but then looked surprised for the millionth time today when Sherlock shook his head. 

“It is the first time I’ve wanted to kiss someone, though.” He explained quickly, making sure you knew in the fastest way possible how terribly badly he wanted to kiss you—hell, to _love_ you—at this very moment. Your eyebrows furrowed at that statement, obviously worried for whatever situation he had been in like that, but your mouth didn’t move apart from the small tremble he noticed in it. 

You both sat there for another moment, time seeming impossibly sluggish (Sherlock’s mind pulled up the image of molasses, practically black liquid dripping like gravity had no affect on it, which then reminded him of you baking molasses cookies, that one time at Baker Street when John was out and you had flour on your face. Because as he had figured out lately, he could easily trace every thought that bounced around in his head back to you.) 

Your hand darted out and tugged on his coat lapel (he had neglected to remove it in favor of talking with you those 6.7 seconds sooner). He was practically desperate. His heart felt like it had been beating faster than it ever did before, and he just wanted to kiss you. 

So, he did.

He knew your lips were soft, but he had never allowed himself to question how much. It was a line of thought he didn’t think he was allowed to go down. But kissing you? Actually kissing you, not just his mind’s pitiful attempts to imagine what would happen if by some miracle (a miracle he was currently living) you felt the same way he did. It was…

Well, he wasn’t about to say fireworks. Too cliché, plus it didn’t fit your relationship at all. There was passion, yes, but more than anything you two were there for each other, in a way that seemed deeper and longer than a brief explosion of color in the sky. 

You know what it was? It was warm. Not just temperature-wise, but a warmth inside him. An author would say it was in his heart. But it was everywhere, it spread like melting honey, your warmth and kindness and love seeping into his face, into his fingers, all the way to the tips of his shoes. He could feel it as he snaked his arms around you, feeling the powdery softness of your sweater that comforted him in a way he wasn’t sure how to express, ever so slightly gripping you closer to him because he still wasn’t quite sure this was real. He could feel it as you eventually pulled away, just a millimeter, just enough to gently bump your forehead to his and look into his eyes and whisper:

“Hey. I’m not going anywhere.” 

You smiled, a blush tinting your cheeks. He couldn’t help but smile too. Of course, you would notice he was worried about that. You noticed everything about him. You later admitted, after a couple hours of attempts to figure out what any of this, your feelings, meant in the outside world, that everything about _him_ was incredibly distracting. And he loved it.

That same feeling he had, the warmth, seemed to stay with him for as long as you were around. Which turned out to be a lot longer than he was expecting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh?? so this was my first prose fic (as you might have seen in the tags) so um? i hope you enjoyed???
> 
> i probably won't be writing more sherlock as i'm not really into the fandom anymore, but i loved writing this so much!! and i hope it's all in character and all that jazz of course!!!!!
> 
> feel free to comment and share and all of that, i love any and all interaction/feedback!!! thank you so so much for reading if you made it this far!!! !! :)))


End file.
